Page 22 of Scarred Bratva King

“Charles manufactures the weaponry we use,” Maxim adds. “But he was just leaving, wasn’t he?”

Charles backs away at once, fear in his eyes. “Of course. Good evening to you both.”

“Enough with the jokes,” Maxim hisses when he’s gone. “Take this seriously.”

I wink at him. “Two things you need to know about me. I joke when I’m nervous.”

“I gathered that. What’s the second thing?”

“You want these people to think I’m worthy of the great Maxim Stepanov, right? So don’t you think your bride to be would be more than a meek little sparrow?”

He thinks for a moment. “Good point.”

The next to approach is a tall, broad man with sharp features and the kind of air that screamsdon’t mess with me.

“This is Ivan,” Maxim says. “My second in command.”

Ivan holds a hand out my way. “A pleasure,” he says, holding out his hand. His suit is impeccable, but his tie is slightly loosened, and his piercing gaze darts between us, assessing. “Maxim,” he adds with a curt nod. “So you’re the woman who tamed the beast.”

I smile sweetly, letting the jab roll off me. “Tamed? Oh no, I’m just along for the ride.”

Maxim glares at us. “Let go of her hand, Ivan.”

“She’s quick,” Ivan mutters, half to himself, half to Maxim. “Good luck. You’ll both need it. Victor’s watching this.”

I let his hand go. “Thanks, Ivan.” My gaze flickers playfully to Maxim, earning me a slight twitch of his lips and a squeeze on my hip.

Ivan lets out a low laugh and moves on, leaving me with the strange sense that I’ve survived round one of some unspoken trial.

The next person to join us is an older man, a politician I vaguely recognize from the news. His silver hair is slicked back, and his smile is the kind that’s been practiced in the mirror—warm on the surface but completely hollow underneath.

He clasps Maxim’s hand with the familiarity of someone who owes him favors. “Maxim,” he says, his voice smooth. “Always a pleasure. And this must be your fiancée.” His gaze sweeps over me like he’s filing away every detail for later use.

“That’s right, George,” Maxim replies, his tone neutral but with a faint edge that warns the man to tread carefully. “How’s the campaign?”

“Progressing, thanks to you.”

George offers me a hand, and I take it, his grip clammy and lingering just a second too long. “Veronica,” he says, his voice oily. “You’ve certainly snagged yourself a catch. Maxim’s quite the helper downtown.”

I smile, tilting my head as if I’m pondering his words. “You mean he picks up litter for his community service? What was it, dear, speeding again?”

George’s laugh is patronizing. “What a quick wit you have. Some men would prefer their women to be seen and not heard, of course. The more traditional wife, wouldn’t you say?”

He glances at Maxim whose hand tightens slightly on my waist.

I wave off the veiled insult with an easy grin. “Oh, don’t worry about me. He chains me up in the kitchen at night.” I glance up at Maxim, my eyes sparkling with mischief. “Though sometimes I think it’s just to stop me stealing his cereal.”

Maxim’s lips curve into a small smile, his approval palpable. George nods, clearly unsure what to make of me, and excuses himself with a polite murmur about mingling.

A cold bead of sweat trickle down my spine as a photographer approaches, his camera flashing like a swarm offireflies. My heart lurches at the thought of Marco seeing these photos, and for a moment, I freeze.

Maxim notices immediately. Without a word, he signals to one of his men, who strides over to the photographer. Within seconds, the camera is confiscated, and the photographer is ushered out, complaining about his fee.

I glance up at Maxim. “Why did you do that?”

He smirks, his gaze flicking down to me. “I notice things.”

“Like what?”

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